Four: The Shape of Things

Gile Sohn's father washed up on the white shores of Nunir some thirty summers past, naked and unconscious. He was rescued by a widowed fishwife who spent several days caring for him while he lay abed, muttering the name Etron and sobbing like a mourner. When he awoke, he did not know who he was or how he had come to be in Nunir. Though distinctly Iyvrian in appearance, he spoke the Nunis’ language with native fluency. He did not recognize the one item found on his person—A pewter choker hidden in his braided hair. The name that he had repeated in his delirium meant nothing to him. His own face reflected in a pool of water meant less still. He was a stranger even unto himself.

Gile’s father convalesced well, and devised a new name—Mincelo for the fishwife’s dead husband and Sohn for the village where he was found. The fishwife kept him on as a lodger. He earned his keep at the docks. It was during this time that certain well-practiced skills yawned from the cavernous depths of his memory. Gile's father could read and write, fence and dance like a nobleman. More curiously, he was taken to climbing great heights and perching there. His reflexes were sharp, his balance preternatural. He could run a slack clothesline one hundred feet in length, neverminding the drop. And so could Gile.



Gile's father was too learned to have been an acrobat or a carpenter. He spent his remaining days believing that he'd manned a crow's nest, perhaps on naval barge or a merchant vessel. As Gile padded effortlessly from the ridgepole of one roof to another, vaulting distances that other men would have scarcely deemed possible, he adopted another theory; His father, Mincelo Sohn, had been a marauder. It was the only way of life that would have had him wielding a weapon and swinging from trees, making demands of greater men by quill. If Gile’s father had manned a crow's nest, it was on a stolen ship.

Gile was not the first person to have had this thought. His grandmother, the Nuni fishwife, had similar reservations. She did not hesitate to offer those reservations the day that her daughter announced her intent to marry Mincelo. The fishwife's cautions and pleas and outright threats fell on deaf ears. The couple married not a fortnight later. No one ever came looking for Mincelo, neither kin nor clan nor the law of any realm. Gile's parents went on to have three children, and Gile was unsure of how many grandchildren. He'd lost touch with every member of his family after his mother joined the ancestors five autumns prior. Gile left Nunir for Udlan Province in his father’s native country of Iyves, and had been patching roofs ever since.



He enjoyed his work. The child in him found a joyful exuberance in skidding down tiles and leaping from one precipice to the next. The cynic in him liked the idea that from his height, he saw what death sees-- For every man, from Gordon Regis down to the poorest wretch is rendered an equally insignificant speck when you are standing at the tip of Udlan Tower. Up here, he was remote from the world. Other people could be as near or as far as he pleased.

It wasn't that he didn't like people. He witnessed their comings and goings with great interest. He simply did not wish to be involved. Involvement meant proximity. It meant touch. It meant the risk of making a false step.

There were other thatchers in Udlan. Hundreds, perhaps. While Gile sailed from roof to roof, he would run into them, along with the carpenters, the bricklayers, the glaziers and the chimney sweeps. He would run into these men as they never ran into him, for they all used the road like any reasonable citizen would. During the day, they each stood adrift on their individual roof islands but by night, they convened in the pubs and spoke of Gile in hushed tones. There was an entire world that operated just above street level in Udlan and to the people up there, Gile remained somewhat of an anomaly. His abilities were often met with mistrust. Rumors circulated about feats that he had accomplished, some of them true but most of them exaggerated. He became known to his fellow roof-dwellers as Pitch, a nickname that had as much to do with the color of his hair as it did a tool of his trade. It was seldom spoken with any affection. Even when Gile shared a vantage point, he stood alone.



Today, Gile was unconsciously ignoring the human element of Udlan’s roofscape. The cluster of buildings that formed the center of the province ceased to be a real place for him, but instead a complex geometry of obstacles. Gile was on his way to the Tower, and this was the easier gauntlet for him to run than pushing through the crowded streets.

Riven-Sholde was paying Gile to climb his way to the uppermost offices of Udlan Tower to deliver a message and a trinket to a woman. It was a potentially dangerous task but Gile thought that he could avoid being seen by the guards. If not, he might lie about the state of the roof.

Gile was frequently offered errand work of this kind but he never hesitated to refuse it. Using the skill that his father had taught him in order to do what a trained bird could do seemed exploitative, even insulting. Gile accepted this one errand only because Riven-Sholde was asking. He was originally out-bid for the repair work on Lord Sholde’s property, but Riven advocated for him. It was a coveted job considering the scope of what needed to be accomplished. Nearly the entire armory was on the verge of collapse. For one man, it was an ambitious project. Riven had faith in Gile’s ability, so much so that he was able to sway his unswayable father. But then, Riven had always liked Gile, whatever his inscrutable reasoning.

Gile’s debt to Riven would have been a compelling enough reason on its own, but he had to admit a certain amount of curiosity about the task at hand. He wondered what sort of woman could be the recipient of such a message. What had even spurred Riven to put forth the effort here? The Riven-Sholde that Gile knew could hardly be arsed to wake up from a drunken slumber while the village children robbed him blind in the streets.

Gile understood that it would not have been proper for Riven to meet with her ladyship in private, as the subject required. According to Riven, the girl’s father would have forbidden her to speak with Lord Sholde’s bastard son whether publicly or privately. Riven was thus obliged to communicate with her through a nimble commoner who had few qualms about breaking into a lord’s bureau in broad daylight to speak with the great-granddaughter of a prince. Perhaps Gile ought to have thought this through first. He slid down the tanner’s shingled roof, landing on his feet in the road and drawing great clouds of dust. The tower bells rang mids, the changing of the guard. His timing could not have been better.

Gile slipped around the corner between the tannery and the smithy. There was a section of the outer wall that could not be viewed from the road here. He sandwiched himself between it, and taking a foothold in the ivy, hoisted himself to the top of the wall.



The guard was still posted. Gile ducked his head out of sight, then rose slowly to take a second glance. It was Lord Oraea. Gile smirked to himself. The luck! Ynav and Oraea were not on the best of terms, but Gile thought that Oraea might still lend a hand in service of his brother. He started to call out to Oraea when he noticed the replacement guard treading down the path. Oraea noticed him too, for he quickly made an about-face and marched towards his incumbent.



Gile gave the ivy a small bounce to test his weight. When the two guards met side by side on the path, he leaped from the wall above their heads, landing silently on the balustrade of low-hanging balcony.



Gile pressed his back against the alcove, making himself invisible. The window nearest him was open, and female voices could be heard from within. They were speaking Lomumbrad. Curious, Gile took a peek inside.

An old Iyvrian woman was sitting at a table with a slave girl of about Gile’s age, surrounded by ceremonial paraphernalia. Smoke hissed from the mouth of a pipette. His skin prickled. A gentle breeze raised the hair on the backs on his arms and for an instant, his vision swam. It was the most uncanny feeling.

Gile lost himself in the billowing mass of smoke, fancying that he saw a tangible form manifest. It looked to him like sinew and bone, fat and tissue, skin and hair, fang and claw building in quick succession. The old woman reached across the table and loosened the girl’s bonds. The movement broke Gile's enchantment. He noticed the girl's wrists, where her bondage gouged dark purple trenches around the full circumference, like bangles. Ivyrians were savages. Gile was half savage. He wondered how spirited a girl had to be in order to find herself tethered wrist to wrist. The old woman extinguished the candle beneath her flask.



“Scaint, I need you to take dictation,” she said. The girl took up her quill and dipped it into the ink. “To His Grace, Lord Pietry Korain, Water Standard of Udlan— I have seen the shape of things to come. A ghost shall appear in the [noun]. He [verb] [object] [complement]. I have heard the [blank] of his cold breath, combed the [modifier] [modifier] of his pelt, and followed his black prints in the snow. To the east, a [big honking word] shall claim the land. The Year of the Wolf is rising.” Gile faced forward to avoid the window, taken with a sudden thrill. The totem animal of the New Year was just named and he was the one of the first people to hear it. His poor grasp of the scholarly language spoken barred him from a good portion of what was said. Still, it did not sound like a terribly auspicious year. Deigning to tell no one of what he heard, Gile looked up. Lord Irojah’s offices were three stories above him. He hoped to not make any more interesting discoveries along the way.



The earl’s windows were closed and screened. They appeared to swing inward. Gile tapped lightly along the edges until he found a weak point and hit it with the heel of his hand. The latch gave way. As he plopped down onto the floor of the office, there was a shriek and the quick movement of heavy furniture. Gile rose to his full height slowly, so as not to cause further alarm.



Kolhue Aebeny, or rather a woman that he assumed to be Kolhue Aebeny, stood poised behind a large desk, breathing hard. She was a proper, gilded little thing and not at all what Gile had imagined. He sucked in his stomach by reflex, venturing an awkward smile. The stare that she returned to him was so fierce that it could have killed an ox at twenty paces.



Gile winced as though he had been struck. Her outrage was well deserved, he would warrant her that, but he had a job to do. He took a step forward, stopping short when he heard a mechanical sounding click. It seemed to come from somewhere inside the room. Gile twisted his head to scan for the source of the noise when her ladyship raised her hands from beneath the desk to reveal that she was fully armed.



Gile stumbled backwards, tripping over books and stools as went. Her ladyship moved with him, aiming the instrument to meet the center of his skull.

“I'm a thatcher!” he shouted. Even in his sudden terror, he knew what an idiotic thing it had been to say. He crouched down and shielded himself with his arms. The woman did not flinch.

“Hold it!” This command was heard to the left of him. An older nobleman was standing to Gile's right, throwing cautionary glances not at Gile but at the woman. She tightened her grip on the release.



“I have a message from Riven-Sholde!” Gile said.

“How dare you intrude here?” The lady's voice was measured-- As cool as it was menacing. Gile peeked out from under his arms.

“It’s a sensitive matter!”

“I begin to lose my patience.” The woman renewed her aim.

“Let him speak, Kolhue.” Already, Gile liked this nobleman. The woman neither moved nor spoke but Gile had the sense that his permission had been granted.

“I--” Gile looked back and forth between the two. “Forgive me, lordship but it’s strictly confidential.”

“He is in my confidence.” The woman’s tone was brusque. Gile took a deep breath.

“I have the thing in my boot. May I retrieve it?”

“No.”

“Kolhue,” the nobleman exhaled. He sounded annoyed. Gile wondered if this man was the earl. Lady Aebeny relented but did not lower her weapon.

“Slowly or I swear I’ll shoot you where you stand,” she said. Gile slipped two fingers into his boot. His limbs were quaking. He could feel Lady Aebeny itching to graze him at the very least. He withdrew the little silver button. “What is that? Roll it over to his lordship.” Gile knelt down and did as he was told. The nobleman picked it up and turned it over a few times, puzzled.

“It was found at the Gomohov house. Riven-Sholde thinks that it might have belonged to the attacker. The maker’s mark is on the back. He said that your ladyship may wish to investigate, but that he would prefer if his name was kept out of it.” The lord grunted in acknowledgement, still flipping the thing over in his hand.

“Is that all?” Kolhue almost sounded disappointed that Gile was not an assassin. Gile summoned his bravery and locked eyes with her.

“Yes, your ladyship.” She waved him towards the window with one finger still resolutely on the trigger.

“Then away you go.” It was so belittling. Gile started to turn around, but she stopped him. “Look to me, boy! I’ll have wind of you as you leave.”

Gile tread backwards towards the window, with his hands held at the height of his shoulders. He bolstered himself up onto the ledge, daring to take one last look at Kolhue Aebeny. Her cheeks were flushed, and her pretty lips threatened murder.



Gile was safe upon the ledge now, only a hop away from the roof. Feeling somewhat cocky, he winked at her. It was then his pleasure to see her turn aghast just before he dropped from ledge and out of view.